


When The Barricades Arise

by mariuspondmercy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuspondmercy/pseuds/mariuspondmercy
Summary: So what if Musichetta had not only the eyes of a fortune teller, but also the powers of one?





	When The Barricades Arise

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Barricade Day 2018!

The eyes of a fortune teller, they’d said. But wasn’t there just that much more to Musichetta than her eyes? And how come fortune and future were always seen as intertwined? There was nothing fortunate about Joly’s future, Musichetta knew. She didn’t know what loomed ahead, which particular fate, but she knew it to be disastrous.

Gently, she ran her hand through the sweaty hair of her sleeping lover. 

 

Paris in late May was brutal. The sun beat down on them, the stench in the streets was impossible to bear. Their small living quarters offered no reprieve, especially not when shared with three people. 

 

“I think the heat exhausts him,” Bossuet said behind her. He came up to them, pressing a kiss to Musichetta’s temple. “I just hope he can sleep through the night.”

 

Musichetta hummed softly. “He will wake up. His leg will give him trouble.” She smoothed a soothing hand over Joly’s disabled leg. “I should make some more of the pain reliever for him to massage it in.” 

 

“The cold makes his leg stiff, warmth lets it swell uncomfortably.” Bossuet sighed and took Musichetta’s place. “I wish him peace.” 

 

He would have peace, Musichetta knew as much. Soon, much sooner than anyone would like it to be. But there was nothing to be done. One couldn’t change the fate of the world. Only fate itself could intervene. 

 

Fate, fortune, future. 

 

Those damn words. Too intertwined to be separated yet they could never be the same, not for her boys. Not for their friends. 

 

Musichetta settled back between Bossuet’s legs, leaning against his chest as she massaged the herbal ointment into Joly’s leg. 

 

“Something is in the air,” Bossuet observed. “A thunderstorm?”

 

“Of some kind.” 

 

“Will Joly be okay?” 

 

Musichetta intertwined their fingers and gently pressed her lips against Bossuet’s knuckles. She let them rest there for a while before she gathered the bowl with the ointment and stood up. In silence, she rinsed out the rest of it in the small basin in the corner of their bedroom. She went to hug Bossuet from behind, forehead leaning against his back. 

 

“He’s going to be okay.”

 

It was not a lie. His leg would not trouble him anymore and Bossuet was sure to be there with him. It was not her right, not her place to tell her lovers about their fate. Of course they knew. Everyone knew. Her family had known of her gift, sending her away as a young child to live somewhere secluded. Some place where she could not be the bearer of dark and gruesome news. Her family had not wanted a fortune teller around. They had wanted a daughter. 

 

So Musichetta had stopped. Stopped warning people, because fate was inevitable. She only ever ended up scaring the ones she loved instead of protecting them. 

 

Joly had learned to never ask, Bossuet took what little Musichetta gave them. Sometimes, she would warn them, tell Bossuet to take an umbrella with him or a little more money than usually. Nothing that would interfere with his life too much. Meddling with fate only brought about wrath. 

 

In his sleep, Joly stirred. Bossuet gently placed his hand on his hip, stroking softly. With a kiss to Bossuet’s neck, Musichetta joined her lovers on the bed, playing with Joly’s hair to soothe him. 

 

“Will you join us at the Musain tomorrow?”

 

“I will. I have a few herbs I believe Jehan would enjoy.”

 

Bossuet smiled and took her hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. 

 

“I am happy to hear.”

 

Musichetta tugged him closer, maneuvering him around so they could lie with Joly close to the wall. He liked it that way, sheltered from the outside world lingering just behind the door, safe in the home they had built together. Bossuet occupied the middle, making sure he would not fall out of bed. He liked to hold Joly close, even in the heat of late May. It left Musichetta at the edge of the bed, never scared to fall but never fully safe. She clung to Bossuet most nights, held close and secure. 

 

With a deep sigh, she relaxed in his arms, kissing his chest. It was too warm to fall asleep quickly, yet too warm to fully stay awake. Joly awoke twice during the night, his leg causing him too much pain to sleep through. Musichetta and Bossuet made sure to calm him, massaged his leg and told him stories. 

 

Restless nights were sure to lie ahead of them. 

 

It was two days later that the news of Lamarque’s death broke. There was no stopping it now, no way to keep her lovers at her side. 

 

The next days were a craze of running, rushing, planning, protesting. The morning after Lamarque’s funeral left Musichetta alone at home, her lovers enjoying breakfast with Grantaire at the Corinth. Her cards lay spread before her. She did not need to turn them, did not need to ask questions she could answer herself, even without her gift. No, there was no fortune in the future. There would be flowers only on graves and the bloodshed would be endless. 

 

And there was nothing to be done.

 

Nothing at all. 

 

It wouldn’t do. If it was to be like this, Musichetta would fight. Fight and comfort, be a presence at her lovers’ side. The boys had to be fed and taken care of. Enjolras had most likely not slept since the death had been proclaimed, Joly was still struggling with the weather, Jehan was still so young and Marius - God only knew what Marius was doing. 

 

She arrived at the café an hour later, laden with bread and wine. She could do nothing to stop anything, but this she could do. 

 

Musichetta was hailed as a hero, little Gavroche already bouncing around her excitedly, chattering his heart away. She had saved some cheese for him and the ragtags following close behind. 

 

With everyone busy, with a barricade being built and Joly in a drunken yet painless state, and with every scrap of red fabric being sewn together, Musichetta found the image of the young boy sitting on the table next to five guns, munching on his cheese, just too much to bear. 

 

“You will be such a hero,” she told him, cupping his face and kissing his forehead. 

 

Gavroche only grinned, tooth-gap and all, before he jumped down from the counter. “Tell it to the old man! He won’t give me a gun,” he huffed, stalking off into the direction of Combeferre and Enjolras. 

 

“You know something,” a gruff voice from behind spoke softly. 

 

Musichetta whirled around, skirt dancing around her legs. Joly had complimented it often. 

 

“Grantaire. Some wine? Some bread? I might have some cheese for you.” 

 

He cocked his head to the side and fixed her as best as he could, eyes already empty and dull. There was a stench about him so much less endurable than Paris herself. 

 

“Tell me, oh great woman with the fortune teller eyes, tell me honestly and without a spare, how will I die?”

 

“Grantaire…” 

 

“I know it to come. If you can tell me how, I know it to come soon. How about Joly and Bossuet? Feuilly? Jehan?”

 

At the mention of the little poet, Musichetta winced. 

 

“You know something. What about them? I need to know.”

 

“You are drunk, Grantaire.”

 

“Even so.”

 

She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “Jehan will die a brave innocent. Combeferre will forever be a saviour, a triumvirate of sorts close to his heart. Joly will be at peace, Bossuet at his side. For once, his luck is on his side.”

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“Oh, my friend…” She shook her head softly. “You are far too drunk. Enjolras will die hopeful. And you, Monsieur Grantaire, my sceptic, my cynic, you will die loved.”


End file.
